


Interrogating the Interrogator

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vortex has been captured, and Springer has only so long to extract the information he needs to prevent a catastrophe.</p><p>Contans: dark themes, graphic violence, implied violence, mention of torture, mention of genocide.</p><p>Set towards the end of Series 3.</p><p>Written to a prompt kindly donated by Swindleslog (the prompt was for Springer interrogating Vortex, but getting creeped out and having to get someone else to do it instead). <br/>It also might be worth mentioning that this is set several decades after the end of 'Recall' - there will be no 'Recall'-specific spoilers (I don't consider 'those characters survive' to be spoilers, as that's clear from loads of other stuff I've written).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“All I want are the coordinates,” Springer said. He leant forward over the desk, careful to look positive, confident, in charge. Couldn’t let Vortex know how desperate they were. “You want out of solitary, don’t you?”

Vortex sprawled in his chair, managing to come across as completely relaxed even with his hands bound behind him. He ruffled his rotors and tugged on his cuffs. “Is this solitary? Looks like an interrogation cell to me. Do you ever get jealous of Blades?”

Springer focused on his ventilation; just ignore the question, keep on track. But Vortex, as always, had other ideas.

“Don’t know about you, but I _love_ having my rotors out like this. It’s gotta grate on a mech having to hide them away.” He gave Springer another of his assessing glances. He was missing his mask – Grimlock had torn it off just before he was captured – but his expression was completely and utterly blank, and had been since they brought him in. He might as well have still been wearing it.

“Solitary’s that place they just dragged you from,” Springer said. “And you can go back, quick as I like.”

Vortex shrugged. “Eh, been through worse. You ever frag Blurr?”

Control, Springer thought. Do _not_ shutter your optics, do not allow yourself to frown. He’s watching you, waiting. “I’m sure you have been through worse. Doesn’t make solitary any less uncomfortable though, does it?”

“Yes,” Vortex said. Then, “Always thought it’d be fun to weld Blurr to a wall.” His optics glimmered, and Springer expected him to crack a smile, but his expression remained as neutral as before. “Disable the motor relays in his fingers. Fast-moving mech like him can’t stay still for long, maybe half a joor? And with his hands out of action, he couldn’t twitch his way out of all that pent up energy. Reckon he’d struggle so hard he’d crack his own armour.”

“The coordinates,” Springer snapped, but he’d lost it. Frag, two breems and Vortex had gotten to him, and he’d shown it. He didn’t have time for this.

“How about…” Vortex said, and this time he did smile, an irrepressible, cheerful grin that Springer found it hard to look at. “I’ll give you the coordinates, if you bring me Blurr.”

Springer resisted the buzz in his targeting circuitry. He wasn’t suited to this, it should be Ultra Magnus doing the talking. “You’re in no position to make demands,” he said.

“Really?” That happy smile remained, sending a shiver down Springer’s back struts. “Let’s see. I’ve got something you want; you’ve got nothing I need… Yeah, I can see how I’m in no position to make demands.” The smile faded back to neutral. “Blurr, one joor, no cuffs. Arm him if you like. _Then_ you’ll get the coordinates.”

No I won’t, Springer thought. But that was the point, wasn’t it? Threaten Blurr, the messenger, the civilian in soldier’s armour. Provoke a protective response, get Springer riled. “I do have something you want,” Springer said. “I have the power to grant you your freed-”

“Arcee,” Vortex interrupted, and Springer’s fuel lines went cold. “She’s a good soldier, isn’t she?”

“Leave her out of this,” Springer snarled. His hands balled to fists, his fuel pumps racing.

“Who would she choose, do you think? All those pathetic little organics on that planet Sixshot’s headed to…” Vortex paused to yawn. “…or Blurr. Or maybe she’d offer herself.”

Springer tried to hold back, but that was one remark too far. His fist connected hard with Vortex’s jaw, a thrill surging through him at the feel of the metal crumpling, the spatter of energon and hydraulic fluid. Then again and again, with all the force of the rage and the fear and the frustration.

And Vortex took it. He didn’t kick, didn’t struggle. He just stared, his rotors quivering, his fans on high. In pain, oh certainly in pain, but he did nothing whatsoever to defend himself. Even when the side of his helm buckled, and the circuits beneath began to spark in the air. Even with his own fluids running freely down his morbid, grey paintwork.

“Feels good,” Vortex whispered, his voice hoarse with static. “Doesn’t it?”

It was like a slap in the face. Springer stumbled back, his hip catching on the table, his knuckles aching. Oh frag, he’d gone too far this time.

“You know it does,” Vortex hissed. He licked the energon from his mangled lips. “Admit it.”

Springer shook his head. He needed to fix this, fix Vortex. He couldn't let Ultra Magnus see what he’d done. And what _had_ he done? Lost his nerve, lost his temper. Lost the race to get to Sixshot before Sixshot could carry out Galvatron’s orders. A planet of three billion sentient organics and Sigma knew how many non-sentients, all dust on a solar wind. All because of him.

Vortex leant his head back, his fans on high. “Mmmmm, do you want another go?”

Springer shuddered. “Frag you,” he spat, and fled for the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Springer fails, First Aid steps in.
> 
> Contains: non-consensual medical procedure, dark themes, refers to 'Recall'.
> 
> This chapter came about because I wanted First Aid to break Vortex.

“You can’t!” Blades hissed. He tugged First Aid aside, so that Springer couldn’t overhear. “What in the universe makes you think that’s a good idea?”

First Aid was shaking, his hands trembling in Blades’ grip, but his voice was steady. “Because I can break him,” he said softly. He glanced at Springer, and Blades could feel the shudder worm through his frame. Vortex had gotten to Springer just like he got to everyone else. But Springer wasn’t First Aid, he hadn’t suffered as the medic had.

“I don’t want you to,” Blades said. “Please.” _It could destroy you_ , but he couldn’t bring himself to say it, just in case it turned out to be true.

First Aid hugged him, quickly, tightly, then pulled away. “I have to,” he whispered. “Is my conscience worth all those lives?” He shook his head, and an ineffable sadness seeped through the bond, mingling with Blades’ fear and his anger.

“We’ll get Hoist to do it,” Blades said, but First Aid was already walking away.

* * *

First Aid vented deeply, slowly. He could do this. He could stand in the same room as Vortex, he could touch him, threaten him. He had to.

He’d heard Blades’ parting words, but Sixshot was already _en route_. If they couldn’t find out which of the many planets matched with Sixshot’s orders before the end of the joor, then a whole world full of living, thinking people would perish.

For a brief and horrible moment, First Aid wished that it wasn’t within his power to stop it. He wouldn't have to think about Vortex, let alone force himself to place a value on his enemy’s peace of mind. Or his own.

But that was selfish. There was no contest. He would do this, and he would have to live with himself afterwards.

He paused by the door to the interrogation cell. There were oil stains on the floor, spatters of energon in the hallway. First Aid thought of Springer’s fists, dented and balled, as he tried to hide them under his arms. This wasn’t going to be pleasant.

He opened the door.

“My favourite Autobot,” Vortex purred. His face was cracked, his helm broken. But he was smiling, his rotors vibrating and his fans on high.

First Aid shuddered anew. He forced himself into the room and closed the door. Springer had been goaded, that much was clear. No. Springer had _allowed himself_ to be goaded. Harming a prisoner, even _this_ prisoner, was monstrous.

First Aid refused to think about what that made him.

“You’ve come to clean me up?” Vortex said.

“I’ve come for the coordinates,” First Aid responded. He could have lied, could have said ‘yes’ and used it as a ruse to gain access to Vortex’s medical port, only revealing his true intentions at the last second. But that was a tactic for manipulators and cowards, and First Aid wanted to be neither.

Vortex laughed. “Really? And what are you willing to do for them.”

First Aid gripped the table. His legs felt weak, although there was nothing wrong with his hydraulic pressure. “If you don’t give me the coordinates,” he began. He stopped, dizzy, started again. “If you refuse to comply, I will disconnect your personality component from your frame. I… I will record it as a medical necessity due to the damage, and... and I will keep you that way.”

“You don’t want to,” Vortex said, but the humour had drained from his voice. “This isn’t you.”

“You’re right,” First Aid almost choked on the words. “I don’t want to. But it’s your mind and my integrity or all those lives. I’ve made my choice.”

Vortex stared. “You can’t,” he said, but his rotors froze and a new tension entered his frame. “You wouldn’t.”

First Aid extended a cable from his wrist and seized control of his rubbery limbs. He stepped behind the chair. “Lean your head forward,” he said. “I believe I have made myself clear.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Vortex said. “It’ll haunt you. Every cycle of your existence, you won’t allow yourself to forget.”

“I know.” First Aid laid a hand on Vortex’s shoulder, as much to steady himself as to keep Vortex from moving. It was horrible. He operated the manual override to Vortex’s medical port, noting how the interrogator shivered and sighed. Hating it. And the way Vortex strained to touch him with his bound hands.

It was almost too much.

“The coordinates,” he said.

“You’ll never get there on time.” Vortex spun his rotors slowly until one of the blades rested against First Aid’s forearm, and the medic fought hard not to flinch. “This is futile.”

“We have to try,” First Aid said. He vented hard, struggling against the fear and revulsion, the tide of memories that threatened to sweep him away. “One last chance.”

“Why sell your integrity for those who are already dead?” Vortex asked, but it rang hollow, and he juddered as First Aid made the connection.

There was no time to pause. First Aid delved into the interface, seeking out pathways so alien and yet so sickeningly familiar. The firewalls let him through, obeying medical overrides he’d learnt during his time with the Decepticons. And finally he found what he was looking for.

He initiated isolation protocols, and took a hold of Vortex’s damaged helm.

“You do this to me,” Vortex said, “and when you find out it was all for nothing, you’ll never forgive yourself. _Your team will suffer_.”

First Aid stalled, cringing, but it was just another manipulation, no matter how likely. He removed the damaged flange and lay it carefully on the table. Then the back of Vortex’s helm; his personality component glowed, his databanks buzzed.

First Aid located the connection that joined Vortex’s mind to his frame, and pulled the plug.

Vortex went limp. No time for him to scream or shout or try to shove First Aid away. No time at all, just one broken connection and he had plunged Vortex into his own personal hell.

He felt like purging.

But worse, he felt triumphant. As though this was a victory, some small measure of payback for everything Vortex had put him through.

He couldn’t think like that. Nothing he did could make them even; it was just atrocity heaped upon atrocity until it corroded them both from the inside.

When thirty astroseconds was up, he pushed the connector back into its socket and waited for Vortex to boot.

The effect was marked. Vortex came to quickly, his every cable taut, his fingers digging into his palms. But he didn’t try to escape, and the only noise he made was a low, quiet whimper.

“Next time,” First Aid said, hating every single word as it emerged from his vocaliser, “it will be permanent.”

“Four four five nine point eight six,” Vortex spat, and continued to rattle off a long string of numbers which First Aid transmitted straight to Ultra Magnus.

He waited until Vortex had finished, then replaced the back of his helm, and slowly, safely disengaged. It was far too tempting just to pull the plug again.

Vortex didn’t try to look at him. “Was it worth it?” he whispered.

“Yes,” First Aid said, but he didn’t know. He wouldn’t until he learnt whether Sky Lynx had reached the planet in time, whether Rodimus and Ultra Magnus were able to stop Sixshot.

It _should_ have been worth it, and that had to be enough for him.

Keeping his optics on Vortex, he backed away until his outstretched hand found the door. He had no idea what he was going to do next. Go to Blades, perhaps, talk it through. Watch over the monitor as Rodimus did his best not to let those people die. Go back to medbay and hurl himself into his work.

He got as far as the hallway before his legs gave out. He slid to the floor, drained and light-headed. This was no place to stop, but he hadn’t the energy to get back up.

Unable to prevent himself from shaking, he hugged his knees to his chest and thought about what he had done.


End file.
